The Druid Boy
by SisterOfAnElvenWannabe
Summary: The story of Mordred, told in his own words. Will cover from before the beginning of the series until the end, and hopefully fill in some gaps.


**A/N: So the premise of this story is kind of strange in tat Mordred narrates it somehow or another from a future/ our own time where he knows about all the legends that were told about him and the others. Is he somehow writing to us from the afterlife? Has he been reincarnated or come back? I have no idea. Maybe I'll figure it out somewhere down the line.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin, though parts of Mordred's back story are my own invention, as so much of it is unknown from the show.**

 **Chapter One: Before**

My name is Mordred. What do you think when you hear that name? What do you feel? Fear? Contempt? Disgust?

My name has invoked all of these throughout the centuries.

Stories about me have been told over and over again, passed down from generation to generation.

Or rather, I have played my small part in the stories. After all, they aren't really about me at all.

Arthurian legend, they call it. The stories of King Arthur. When I am mentioned in the stories, I come in at the end. Or maybe a better description would be to say that I am the end.

The stories are wrong. Oh, parts of them are right, but much has been lost or changed over the years.

I am writing this to tell you the true story, or at least my part in it. If you are looking for a tale of the life of King Arthur, or of Merlin, or of Guinevere, or any of the others, you will find here only a partial account. After all, I can only tell you the parts I was there for.

I do not write this in an attempt to excuse the things I did or the mistakes I made. I do not write in the hopes of invoking your pity or your sympathy. I write only so there will be some record of the truth.

Before I begin my tale, I would like to clear up a few misconceptions straight away.

First of all, the question of my parentage. Arthur is not my father, nor is he my uncle. He would have only been about ten years old when I was born.

Neither Morgause nor Morgana is my mother. Again, Morgana is only about twelve years older than me. As for Morgause, I never even met her.

I have no idea where some of these stories come from.

In the same vein, neither Gwaine nor Agravaine are my brothers. I have no brothers or sisters at all. Agravaine was Arthur's uncle, though I never met him. As for Gwaine, well, there was a time that he was like a brother to me, but I have no blood relation to him.

I suppose that is all I have to say in introduction. There is nothing left to do now but begin the story.

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I was born in the summer, in a Druid camp hidden deep in the forest. My father's name was Cerdan and my mother's was Mairwen.

I sometimes struggle to recall my mother's face. I remember she was beautiful, but I suppose most little boys think of their mother as beautiful. Perhaps she seemed so to me only because I loved her so much. She had brown hair, quite a bit lighter than my own, which was black, or nearly so. Her eyes were green, a vivid green, like the leaves on the trees.

My father was tall. His hair was darker than my mother's and his eyes were brown.

For the first few years of my life, I was a happy, ordinary child.

I suppose there was always the fear, even then, of discovery by Uther and his men, but they seemed distant and far away, little more than a frightening story.

Of luxuries, we had none, and sometimes even of necessities there was very little to go around. But I was loved and I was happy. No child could have received more love from their parents then I received from mine. And so, in that regard, I was luckier than many.

It was discovered early on that I had magic. It was not surprising, both of my parents were also gifted with magical abilities.

At first my powers manifested only in the ability to communicate with others in my mind and to sense the presence of powerful magic. Other abilities came later.

When I was six years old, my life changed forever.

I was out in the woods with my mother, picking herbs. We had gone some distance from the camp, for the herbs she was looking for were difficult to find.

My mother was doing most of the herb picking. I would occasionally bring her one or two, but most of my time was occupied by collecting stones and leaves in my own basket.

I remember everything about that day with crystal clarity. It stands out like a bright shard of glass among others memories that are dimmer and more faded.

I can still feel the stones in my hands, some of them rough, others as smooth as a lake on a windless day. I can smell, and almost taste, the scent of the herbs my mother gathered. I can see my little basket with its collection of leaves and stones, and the odd pinecone or two. I can hear the birds chirping.

The first sign of danger came as a sound. It was a sound that didn't belong in the forest: the rough voices of men, the thudding of horse's hooves, the clanking of armor and chainmail.

The sounds were unfamiliar to me, and my first instinct was curiosity. I set my basket down on the ground and looked around, trying to locate the source of the sound.

My mother had a different reaction. The moment she heard the sound she tensed, going still. For several seconds, she stood frozen, while the sounds of men and horses drew closer to where we were.

I sensed her tension, and it was only then that I began to feel afraid.

Suddenly, she seemed to break out of a trance. She hurried over to me. Grabbing my hand she led me to a bush, "Quick, get under here!"

"Mother, what is it?" I asked.

"Shh," she said softly, "Just do as I say Mordred. And whatever you do, don't make a sound. "

Frightened and confused, I crawled under the bush. Barely five seconds later, the group of men was upon us.

I peered out through the branches of the bush, wide-eyed. It was a patrol of knights, Uther's men, dressed in shining chainmail with red cloaks that bore a golden dragon, the sign of the royal family of Camelot, the Pendragons.

The leader called the patrol to a halt when he spotted my mother.

"You there," he called, "Who are you?"

"My name is Mairwen, sir," my mother answered. Though she was afraid, her voice came out quite even.

"What are you doing so far out in the woods alone?" the leader of the knights asked.

My mother held up her basket, "I am gathering herbs."

The knight frowned, "We're miles from any town or village."

Before my mother could respond, the knight's eyes narrowed, "What's that there?" He was staring at a place on her collarbone, where, half-hidden by her dress, her Druid triskellion showed.

"It's-" my mother began, but the leader of the knights cut her off.

"I know what it is. It's a Druid mark. You're a Druid." He spat out the word Druid as if it was something filthy and vile.

"What are the herbs really for?" he barked, "A spell? Some foul witchcraft?"

My mother shook her head, a note of fear creeping into her voice, "No. They are only healing herbs."

"A likely story," he snarled, drawing his sword.

I sat very still in my hiding place under the bush, frozen and struck mute with terror. It was lucky for me that I was.

"Please," my mother said, "Please-"

She got no further than that, for without warning, without hesitation, the leader of the group of knights strode forward and drove his sword through her stomach. One of the men behind him, the youngest of the group, let out a gasp of shock.

My mother's eyes widened and she made some sort of sound, a choked, ragged gasp, as she sank to her knees.

His eyes cold, the leader of the knights jerked his sword free. Blood began gushing from the wound and my mother crumpled to lie still in the grass.

"Why did you do that?!" the young knight who had gasped before demanded, his face very white. If any of the others were troubled by their leader's actions, they didn't show it.

"She was a Druid," the leader answered coldly, "The Druids are enemies of Camelot. Filthy magic users."

The young man swallowed hard and dipped his head in deference to his leader.

"Let's go," the leader barked, and the patrol of knights moved away. It was only when the sounds of their horses' hooves and the clanking of their armor had faded into the distance that my state of paralysis lifted and I was able to move.

I pushed my way out from under the bush, branches scratching my arms and tearing at my clothes, and raced to my mother's side.

"Mother!" I cried, dropping to my knees beside her, "Mother!" Her eyes were open, blank and unseeing.

Nevertheless, I shook her shoulders, "Mother, wake up! Wake up!" When she didn't respond I dropped my head onto her chest and began to sob.

Two of the men from my camp found me there, weeping and clinging to my mother's lifeless body, her blood staining my clothes.

When my mother and I hadn't returned to camp, they had come out with my father to search for us.

I wasn't aware of their presence until one of them spoke, his voice hoarse with shock, "You better get Cerdan."

The next thing I knew I was being lifted in strong arms.

"No!" I cried, struggling to get free, not wanting to leave my mother's side, "No! Let me go!"

"Shh, shh," the man holding me murmured, "You're safe now. You're safe." I stopped struggling, slumping in his arms.

The next few minutes are a blur in my memory. I suppose I was carried back to camp. The next thing I remember clearly is being curled on my sleeping pallet in my family's tent, and the feeling of my father's arms around me as I wept into his chest.

I changed after that day. I had always been a relatively quiet child, preferring speaking in my mind to conversing out loud. But after my mother's death, I was almost silent. I almost never spoke aloud, almost always speaking only in my mind. Perhaps it felt safer that way.

In time, my grief began to subside, or at least to not be so constantly present and suffocating as it had been at first. Eventually, I was able to smile again, and to laugh. But I was never again the carefree child I had been before. He was gone forever.

Sometimes I would wake in the morning and look around for my mother, before remembering she was gone. Sometimes it felt as if she could walk into our tent any moment. But, of course, she never did.

I began to suffer from nightmares, reliving my mother's death in my dreams. Sometimes, in the dreams, my father was killed too, and sometimes the men found me and I would wake just as the sword was thrusting down towards me.

It was during one of these dreams of my mother's death that I first manifested a magical ability beyond the ones I have already discussed. I woke screaming, as I had so many nights before, and as I did, I felt a rush of power leave me and a pot on a nearby table shattered into pieces.

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